The sound of it, his laugh, that low rasp, strokes me between my thighs.He tugs back just enough to look at me, his storm gray eyes probing my face for any inkling of doubt.
“You don’t owe me this,” he says.“Not after what you’ve been through.Not ‘cause I pulled you outta a fight.”
“I know.”I reach up and caress his jaw, feel his rough beard.“This isn’t about owing.It’s all about wanting.”
Something shifts in him, a flicker of fear, then hunger, then surrender.He presses his forehead to mine.“You got no idea what you’re takin’ on with the likes of me.”
“Maybe I don’t want safe anymore,” I say.“Maybe I don’t want soft and easy.Maybe I want rough and real.”
He exhales a shuddering breath, and for a moment, the storm outside mirrors the one inside us.
His hands under my sweater, skate down my back, slow and deliberate, rough against my skin, and I feel it.Not just his desire but his history.Every mile of road that made him, every scar that shaped the man standing in front of me.He’s older, harder, heavier with the world, and that’s exactly why I can’t walk away.
“You feel this too,” I whisper.
His forehead still against mine, he closes his eyes.“Yeah.God help me, yeah.”
The wind howls.The lights flicker once, twice, before dying entirely, plunging us into shadow lit only by the storm’s reflection on the glass.
“Damn it.Breaker must’ve gone,” he mutters, voice a low growl that finds me in the blackness.“Don’t move.”He cups my face again, thumb brushing my bottom lip.“Last chance,” he murmurs.“Tell me to walk out.”
“I’d rather you stay.”
My words are soft, but they land like a spark.
In the dark, he kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue nearly choking me, but slow, claiming, the kind of kiss that ends chapters and starts wars.His hands slide into my hair again, pulling, but anchoring me as the world outside dissolves into white noise.
Everything is sound and heartbeat and the scrape of his breath against mine.His voice rumbles low when he says my name, half warning, half prayer, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
He doesn’t need to say anything else.The storm says it for us, loud, relentless, unstoppable.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t try to outlast it.
I let it take me.
Denim thuds to the floor.The sound alone could melt the snow outside.He drops his pants and the faint blue light from the window outlines him.The biker’s completely naked.
I swallow hard.
His hands find me by touch, not sight.Rough palms brush my arms, tracing goose bumps down to my wrists before he murmurs, “Peppermint, you’re shaking.”
“Not from the cold.”
He exhales, the noise deep and rough, near enough to perceive on my skin.Then fingers tug gently at the edge of my sweater.“You sure?”
“I won’t stop you,” I whisper.
He hesitates for one heartbeat, then slips the fabric upward.My stomach feels the air, cool where his hands aren’t.He leans in, the warmth of his body replaces the cold, and I feel “it” against me.His Cock.Hard but soft all at once and hot, like a burning ember.
Damn.I stop breathing.
The heat of his hands finds and removes my bra with ease.The cool air hits my nipples, and I swallow hard.
“Carol,” he almost growls as he cups my bare breasts with his searing palms.“I’m a biker.There’s a lot you don’t know about men like me.”
“I don’t care,” I say, and mean it.I’m still focused on the hot steel beam against me.
He huffs a quiet, almost broken laugh, leaning down, his forehead resting against mine again.“You will.But maybe not tonight.”His voice roughens like it’s turning over on asphalt.
